The one where you built, brick by brick
the half-walled flower bed, where we never
got around to the deck, where scorpions came
in the showers, where we set up the first crib.
The one-bedroom up a flight of dark stairs
where I wrote stories and school papers,
where we ate Hamburger Helper and the kitchen
rack slipped our wine-glasses to the floor.
The one with 1940s flooring and south view
of winter sun, where the laundry chute
opened on the basement where I worked
while my father died. The crib again, there.
The one with the teeny yard we cut with shears,
marigolds on concrete and opossums on the fence.
The one on the cul-de-sac with kids, a military circle
of playground, hospital, sleepless nights and 9/11.
The one I loved and you hated, money pit with
garden surround. Another crib, endless contractors.
Where you built, board by board, the deck,
where for 10 years we slept to rain on skylights.
This one, concrete-modern, echoing white and screenless,
where I have my very own workroom overlooking
neighbors’ lush gardens, where rain and stars are muffled
by a host of concrete houses, strangers shut within.
It is easy to forget, day by day, the places outside
of photos, the 22 years of furniture, curtains, carpet.
Where we fell into bed, fell into and away from each other,
began a new day again and again and again.
Last night, I glimpsed the full moon shining
through the balcony’s metal blinds.
You were sleeping but I wanted to tell you,
I would go with you anywhere, and still be home.